


In This Light

by kiwikero



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Loner Harry, M/M, Pining, Popular Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-19 22:39:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10649520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwikero/pseuds/kiwikero
Summary: Harry gets a position on the school yearbook staff, which is fine until he falls in love with Louis Tomlinson through the lens of his camera.





	In This Light

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as part of an ongoing challenge. We each select random numbers and are given a specific emotion from the book 1000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names. To read the other fics written in this challenge, [click here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/ShortFic_Challenge_For_Which_There_Is_No_Name/works), or you can find the masterpost on tumblr [here](http://lululawrence.tumblr.com/post/159679804243/1000-feelings-for-which-there-are-no-names-prompt).
> 
> This was such a challenge for me! I am not used to writing short fics at all. I love the idea behind the challenge and I had an excellent first prompt! I chose number 36: The Envy of abilities you don't need and honestly don't even want, but when you see certain people with them, their devastating ease and casual matter-of-factness means you can't help admiring them, so much that you just want to cry."
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, Sarah, as well as the organizers and other participants of this challenge!
> 
> Title comes from "When We Were Young" by Adele.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

Ever since he bought his first camera, Harry Styles has felt like he watches the world go by through a lens. Every family event, every party, he’s always there to record it all for posterity. “I don’t even take pictures anymore,” his friends joke. “Because I know Harry will take enough for everybody!”

Harry laughs right along with them, but at the same time he worries no one else cares enough about remembering these shining moments that make up their teenage years. Or is it simply, as he sometimes wonders, that no one cares enough to take pictures of  _ him _ ?

Still, his years of amateur photography are enough to earn him a spot on the yearbook staff  — despite only being a sophomore — and soon he has a fancy DSLR signed out and permission to take as many photos of his classmates as he likes. Every football game, school play, and dance: Harry’s at all of them, camera at the ready to capture other people’s memories.

The only problem is… At every single event, Louis Tomlinson is there too.

Louis. He’s that kid you want to hate because he’s good at everything, but can’t because he’s also a really good person. He’s gorgeous, curvy in places the other boys at school are square, with blue eyes that seem to catch the perfect light even in the final bow of curtain call. Harry has watched him all year long, learning the tilt of Louis’ lips and the crinkles by his eyes in the hundreds of pictures Harry’s taken. He has to go through his memory card after every soccer game, guiltily deleting photos of Louis until there’s an amount that says ‘this kid is obviously the star player’ instead of ‘the photographer is a bit obsessed.’

Not that Harry’s ever actually spoken to Louis. Louis is a senior, and is laughably far from Harry’s own little circle of friends. Louis can flit between the athletes and drama kids with ease, but the dorks who put together the yearbook? That’s a bit of a stretch.

Sometimes Harry thinks about why it is he’s so entranced by Louis. His looks are definitely part of it, but certainly there’s more to it than that. Perhaps it’s that Louis excels at everything Harry has ever wanted to do, making things seem effortless when they’ve always been out of Harry’s reach. He played soccer a bit as a child, before his asthma got too bad, but now all it takes is watching a particularly stressful match to make him reach for his inhaler. He’s dreamt of the stage, of making people laugh and entertaining them, but his nerves keep him from ever auditioning. Instead, he watches Louis do it all with charismatic ease.

Not that Harry  _ needs _ to be able to act or play sports. He already knows what he's going to do: go to business school and then take over his mom’s bakery. She's worked so hard to support him for so long, and it's the least he can do to repay her. Besides, the only thing Harry loves almost as much as photography is baking, and the idea of photographing all his lovely cakes and pastries and posting them to the bakery’s website is something he daydreams about regularly. 

He’s doing so now, still sitting in the bleachers after tonight’s soccer match. He took plenty of photos of their team celebrating their win, but as the fans dispersed and the lights started to go down, Harry just sort of… stayed. The metal of the seat is cold and hard under his butt, a chill settling down over the field as night closes in, but he just can’t bring himself to leave yet. At home, he has a chemistry test to study for and geometry homework to do, along with chores he’s been putting off. Here, in this moment, he’s just a boy with his camera dreaming about the future, and he wants to hold onto that for a little while longer.

“Are you okay?” a voice asks, as crisp and cool as the evening air.

Harry shakes himself as the columns of sugar and frosting in his mind’s eye dissolve away, leaving the green of the field and the painted blue of the bleachers. He nearly fumbles his camera, suddenly grateful for the neck strap he always secures despite the amount of teasing he gets for it. “Louis,” Harry breathes.

The senior has changed out of his uniform, now wearing a pair of track pants and the senior class hoodie. He has a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and his hair is still wet from his post game shower. He's looking at Harry curiously. “Yeah,” Louis says slowly. “I saw you sitting up here all by yourself. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A sick rush of embarrassment makes a blush rise in Harry's cheeks. It's one thing to be completely invisible to his crush, but now he's gone from a nobody to total space cadet in mere minutes. He's never wanted to go back to being invisible so badly in his life. 

“I'm fine,” Harry insists, willing himself to sound nonchalant. “Just waiting for my ride.” It isn't a total lie; Harry's mom offered to pick him up after the game if he didn't feel like riding his bike home. He just hasn't called her yet. 

“Oh.” Louis tilts his head, considering. “Will it be long? I can wait with you if you'd like. Or I can give you a ride.”

Harry's mind is too busy panicking to make the obvious joke. He stares at Louis uncomprehendingly, as if Louis just offered him a kidney or the winning lottery numbers. “Um,” he says. 

“Or I can just leave you alone,” Louis says, sounding casually disinterested as he shrugs one shoulder. “Sorry, I shouldn't have bothered you.” He turns, ready to make a hasty retreat down the bleachers. 

“Wait!” Harry calls, his body leaping into action before his mind catches up with it. “You don't have to wait with me, but it was really nice of you to check on me.” He offers up a smile, and the one Louis returns could light ten soccer fields. “Thank you. You were amazing tonight, by the way,” Harry adds, immediately hating himself for sounding like such a dork. 

It's Louis’ turn to blush, splotches of pink kissing his cheekbones and spilling over into the hollows beneath. “We have a great team. I'm just part of it,” Louis replies demurely, still looking pleased at the compliment. “Anyway, if you don't need me then I'm going to take off. I'll see you around, Harry.”

“See you,” Harry replies, and then Louis is retreating down to field level, footprints loud on the painted metal and carrying over the empty field. Louis makes it all the way out of sight before it hits Harry that he never mentioned his name. 

Things are different, a bit, after that. Harry still goes to school, and to events, and documents his classmates having the time of their lives. He spends free periods in the yearbook room, editing photos and tweaking layouts, cringing at the amount of red on the latest batch of proofs his editor handed back. Every home soccer game he's right there on the sidelines, capturing every kick and pass and goal. Except, since that night, Louis smiles when he sees Harry, waves to him and makes a silly cross-eyed face for the camera. They don't talk, but they don't have to; those little moments they share are something far more special than a conversation could be.

And it just… keeps happening. More and more frequently, Harry catches Louis looking for him in the crowd, or giving him a polite nod when they pass in the hallway. One evening Harry is photographing a basketball game only to look across the court and see Louis watching him from the crowd. It's… strange, really, having the person he's spent so long gawking at turn the tables. It's the first time Harry doesn't mind being stared at, and he tries his best to look like the most professional student photographer their high school has ever seen (he gets hit with an out-of-bounds ball halfway through the second quarter, but he chooses to believe that Louis didn't notice). 

The end of the semester seems to come out of nowhere. Harry has finals to prepare for on top of all the pages he needs to finish for the yearbook, so he spends every moment of free time either studying or in front of a computer in the yearbook classroom. Alas, that's where he is now.

It's a beautiful Friday in April, and instead of spending it with his friends he's trying to get the page for the spring play just right. The drama club performed Grease, and of course Louis got the lead role. Harry was right there in the front row every night of the show’s run; he said it was to make sure he got plenty of pictures. In reality, he got all the photos he needed the first night and spent the rest watching Louis perform like he was born for it. It was almost painful to watch, like Louis was too brilliant, too bright, without the buffer of a camera lens to protect Harry’s eyes. Still, Harry didn’t dare look away. On the final night, when the cast took their last bow, Louis’ eyes fell on Harry in the audience and he winked. 

_ I’m too young to die, _ Harry thought, but then Louis’ attention was directed elsewhere and Harry felt like he’d been spared from nearly touching the sun.

Now, Harry is trying to arrange those pictures on a double page spread without making it look like a performance of  _ The Louis Show. _ It helps that Louis played the main character, but Harry is careful to use a photo of every cast member at least once. Sometimes he feels guilty for not including more people in the yearbook, but he’s on the damn staff and the only photo of him will be his portrait among the other sophomores.  _ Styles, Harry _ , complete with acne and the literal worst hair day he’s ever had.

He’s just placing a photo of Louis as Danny in his leather jacket into his layout when the door to the yearbook room creeps open. Even though it’s after school hours, it’s not uncommon for other students to stop by to work on their own pages, or to check out a camera for whatever event they’ve been assigned to cover that evening. This time of year, with deadlines looming ever closer and the editors breathing down their throats, after school is often the safest time to work.

Harry spares a glance at the door, expecting to see his friend Niall or perhaps even Mr. Sinclair, the yearbook advisor, but he freezes in shock when none other than Louis Tomlinson peers shyly inside the room.

Louis’ eyes land on Harry, the brightest blue even in the ugly yellow glow of the classroom lights. His face eases into a smile, softer than the one he uses on stage or on the field, but devastating nonetheless. “Hey, Harry,” he says.

“Hey,” Harry replies, mentally patting himself on the back for at least pretending to keep his cool. This is the first time they’ve spoken in weeks, and hearing his name in Louis’ soft, raspy voice again takes him right back to the night on the bleachers. “Mr. Sinclair isn’t here right now, but I can give him a message if you’d like.”

Louis blinks, smile dimming a fraction. “Oh,” he says. “No, I wasn’t looking for him.” His face grows red, his head ducked sheepishly forward as he tugs at the hem of his shirt. “I actually came here to talk to you.”

The person in front of Harry is an imposter, he has to be. Louis Tomlinson is confidence and charm, charisma and agility, finely honed talent poured into the most extravagant of vessels. He’s nothing like the boy standing in the doorway, his usually boisterous voice coming out quiet and fragile. He’s still beautiful, still exuding self-assuredness in a way that Harry can never hope to achieve, but he also seems vulnerable somehow. Like maybe, somewhere underneath the gold plating, there is a brittle interior that peeks through in the right light.

“Me?” Harry squeaks, caught off guard. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

Louis takes a deep breath, eyes landing on Harry’s as he opens his mouth to speak, but then he zeroes in on a point just over Harry’s right shoulder. “Is that the page for  _ Grease? _ ” Louis asks, taking a step further into the room.

Harry glances nervously at the screen and back to Louis. It’s too late to hide it now; Louis is going to see exactly how many of the photos feature him.  _ Maybe he’s so full of himself he won’t notice, _ Harry thinks, even though he knows that’s the furthest thing from the truth. “Yeah,” he admits. “I need to turn it in by tomorrow.”

The grace Harry is familiar with slides back into place as Louis crosses the room in a few easy strides, grabbing a spare chair and pulling it next to Harry’s. Louis flops down and leans closer to examine the screen, so close to Harry that their knees bump under the table.

“This is sick,” Louis exclaims delightedly, eyes flicking from photo to photo. He skims over the cast list and takes a moment to read the blurb Harry typed up. “Did you take all these?” He points to a photo of himself, eyes closed tight and one arm raised as he nailed a note.

Harry nods, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, but Louis only turns back to the pages to look at them. There’s a cast photo, and one of Louis dancing, and the T-Birds, and one of Louis, and Sandy and the Pink Ladies, and another one of Louis...

“You have a lot of me,” Louis murmurs. His brows are furrowed with—disgust? Confusion?—something. He glances at Harry, blue eyes searching Harry’s face for an explanation.

“I like taking pictures of you,” Harry explains quietly. He waits for the fallout, for Louis to push his chair back in screeching disgust and make a break for it. He waits to be let down gently, which he thinks might be worse than anger. He waits.

Louis looks over all the photos one last time before turning to deliver Harry’s fate. “These are amazing,” Louis says, that shy breathlessness having finally joined him from the doorway. “Are you going to go to school for photography?”

Harry blinks at him, stunned. “Erm. I hadn’t planned on it. I was going to— business?” He’s at a loss for words.

“No, no, no,” Louis scoffs, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. “Harry, these are incredible, and I’m not just saying that because I’m in most of them,” he says with a wink. “You have a gift; you have to promise me you’re going to put it to use.”

And, what? Harry knows he’s not bad with a camera, has been around them his whole life and quickly picked up the basics of using a DSLR. But to call it a gift? He just points the camera and presses the button. Anyone can do that.

“Are there more?” Louis demands, not waiting for Harry to speak. “I want to see more. Show me some soccer ones.”

Too flummoxed to argue, Harry minimizes the  _ Grease  _ page and pulls up the soccer one. The left side is dominated by a team photo and roster, but the right is a collage of action shots. Louis fixates on one in particular, his body twisted into an elegant kick, the ball cradled in midair by his foot. That ball would go on to soar past the goalie and win them the match.

“I’ve never seen myself like this before,” Louis whispers, fingers twitching where they rest on his thigh as if he wants to reach out and touch his 2-D counterpart. “You made me look so professional somehow, like a real athlete. In the play, too. I don’t understand. I wish I could take photos half as good as these.”

“You always look like that,” Harry says, blinking. “Louis, you look incredible in every picture because that’s how you actually look.”

Louis frowns, looking down at himself. “I find that hard to believe.”

“What?” Harry asks incredulously.

Louis glances up at him, an unhappy tilt to his mouth. “I’m not anything special,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “I just was lucky enough to find things I love doing, and I give them my all. I’m not as great as everyone seems to think I am just because I score a few goals every game.”

“You are, though,” Harry argues, anger building up at hearing Louis being so hard on himself. “Maybe not for the reasons everyone else thinks, but you are special.”

“What makes you say that?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “Louis, you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. You pour your whole heart into everything you do, and everyone around you can feel it. You’re the most popular kid in the entire school, yet you’re still sitting here doubting yourself because you haven’t let it go to your head. You play soccer like you were made for it, and I have no doubt you could play in college if you really wanted to.”

Louis stares at him in wide-eyed silence, letting Harry’s tirade sink in for a moment. “Do you know why I play soccer?” Harry shakes his head. “I was good at it in middle school, good enough that the high school coach asked me to try out when I was a freshman. It was still fun, then, but then people started talking scouts and college, and then I got a scholarship to play for State, and now I feel like I’m trapped.” He smiles at Harry, the saddest Harry’s ever seen him look. “I’m gonna do it, though, because I don’t want my mom to have to worry about my tuition. She has enough on her plate trying to raise my sisters all alone. So I’m going to play college soccer, and maybe even make a pro team, and I’m gonna be happy about it because it’s the right thing to do for my family.” He lifts a fist, lightly knocking it against Harry’s shoulder. “So you have to go to art school for me, Harry. Business isn’t something to be passionate about, and I have to believe that someone out there can still follow their dreams.”

It’s a lot to take in. No one would ever look at Louis and guess that he wasn’t happy. He seems like he has it all; what on earth does he have to be sad about?

“What would you do?” Harry asks, his voice coming out just above a whisper.

Louis frowns. “What do you mean?”

Harry licks his lips. “What would you do if you weren’t going to play soccer? What’s  _ your _ passion?”

“Oh,” Louis says. “I mean, I’ve never really told anyone this before. No one’s ever asked; they always just assume.” He takes a shaky breath before blowing it out through his lips. “I actually always wanted to be a singer. Write songs, make music, make people happy in the process.” He looks utterly embarrassed, like any moment Harry will start teasing him relentlessly for such a silly dream.

“Me too,” Harry says earnestly. “I’ve always wanted to perform, but I’ve got terrible stage fright.”

Louis regards him for a moment, waiting for Harry to take it back, and then tips his head backwards in laughter. “All right, it’s settled; you and I are running away to start a band together.”

Harry laughs too, loud and braying, which only makes Louis laugh harder. Soon they’re both barely managing to stay in their chairs, holding their aching stomachs and wiping their streaming eyes.

“Louis,” Harry says, once they’ve both managed to catch their breath. “Why were you looking for me?”

“Oh, right,” Louis says, instantly sobering. He twists his mouth to one side, the expression scrunching up his nose. “Well, it’s a bit embarrassing, and I understand if you don’t want to, but…”

“Just say it,” Harry pleads. What could Louis possibly want from him? Did he come here to ask Harry to stay away, that it’s a bit creepy to have someone pointing a camera at you all the time?

“I was hoping you might want to go to prom with me,” Louis says, his cheeks so red they seem painted. “I realize it’s next weekend, and someone’s probably already asked you, but I wanted to ask just in case.”

In a million years, Harry would never have expected Louis to say that. “You don’t have a date?” he asks cautiously.

Louis shakes his head. “Didn’t want to take anyone before I met you; figured I’d just go and have a good time with my friends. That was before this curly-haired brunet started showing up to every soccer match and almost everything else too, and I had to know more about this Harry guy.”

“But you don’t even know me,” Harry insists. “This is the longest we’ve ever talked before.”

“I want to,” Louis says earnestly. “Get to know you. And I want to take you to prom, because I think I’d have more fun sitting in silence with you than talking to anyone else.”

Harry didn’t even plan on going to prom. As a sophomore, he can only attend if a junior or senior invites him, and he figured the odds of that were slim to none. “This isn’t going to turn into an homage to  _ Carrie, _ right?” Harry asks, only mostly joking.

“Not unless you have some freaky powers I don’t know about. And probably not even then,” Louis says with a wink, the Tomlinson charm firmly back in place. “So, what do you say?”

Harry’s quiet for a few minutes, not because he has to make a decision—he knew his answer before he was even asked—but because this is all so surreal. Louis Tomlinson has been asking around about him, and noticing him, and now he wants to take Harry to prom. It’s enough to make Harry’s head spin.

“Yes,” Harry says, fascinated at the joy that lights up Louis’ eyes like a summer sky. “I’d love for you to take me to prom.”

Louis claps his hands together and whoops, the sound echoing in the yearbook room. It seems so bizarre, like Harry should be the one celebrating, but here Louis is acting as if he’s just won the prom date lottery.

“You aren’t embarrassed to be taking a dorky sophomore?” Harry asks, compelled to give Louis one more chance to get out.

“No,” Louis says, smiling so widely that his cheeks are almost comically stretched. “I’m excited that I’m taking the most talented photographer in the school. Now come on, I want to see some more of your pages.”

So Harry shows him.

***

They do go to prom together a week later, Louis’ chestnut hair swept into a quiff and Harry’s camera slung around his neck like an accessory. He takes dozens of pictures, but not for the yearbook; these are just for him to keep, mementos of his first prom and his first dance and, when Louis drops him off at the end of the night, his first kiss.

Someone else is assigned to design the prom page for the yearbook, and with all the pressure to meet his own deadlines, Harry doesn’t even get to see it until his book comes in the mail months later. There, right in the center of the collage, is a photo of him and Louis dancing together—shortly after Louis was crowned Prom King, of course. Harry’s head is nestled against Louis’ shoulder, Louis’ cheek pressed into Harry’s mess of curls. It’s immediately Harry’s favorite picture in the world, and he can’t wait until Louis gets out of class to see if he’s received his yet.

Louis does go on to play college soccer, but he also chooses to major in drama and, even though he doesn’t get the lead role this time, still manages to score a speaking part in the university’s first production of the year. Harry has tickets for every night of the show.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! See you next week!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://icanhazzalou.tumblr.com), and there is a rebloggable fic post [here](http://icanhazzalou.tumblr.com/post/159716380670/title-in-this-light-author-kiwikeroicanhazzalou)!


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